


The Sinner

by agdhani



Category: Colin Farrell - Fandom, Irish Actor RPF
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Priest Kink, RPS - Freeform, Religion Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 17:01:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agdhani/pseuds/agdhani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young priest at a birthday party gets more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sinner

**Author's Note:**

> Totally fiction. Though he's never named in the fic, Colin was in mind when it was written. The OMC is no one in particular...he just fit my needs.

It has all seemed so innocent last night…

Well, casual perhaps…but hardly innocent.

Just a gathering around good food and expensive drink. Family and loved ones, friends, and acquaintances of import in the community coming together in celebration. A birthday party of the matriarch…that was it…wasn’t it? He couldn’t remember precisely now, and at this particular moment, it hardly seemed important, as anything rational and intelligent flew right out the window…

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…”

That voice. He knew it. Deep in his soul he knew it. Deep in his bones where it had burrowed last night like a parasite of the most insidious kind…deep inside he knew it. He had heard it the previous evening for the very first time, a voice of raucous laughter cut off when ripe lips wrapped themselves around the mouth of the beer it’s owner had been holding. A deep voice, lush and full and alive in a way that so much in the world seemed to be no longer. Since then, he hadn’t been able to excise it from his head…and he just knew it was going to be his undoing.

Especially now that it was so near, practically blowing into his ear.

“It has been…fuck, I dunno…” A nervous giggle then “Oh…sorry, Father…suppose I shouldn’t swear in here…”

He managed to find his voice as soon as the brogue was absorbed into the padded walls of the confessional. “No…my son…you should not…” he squeaked.

“Okay…well…I don’t know how long its been…and I’ve got a list a mile long…I drink too much…smoke too much…swear too much…I sleep around too much…and I’m sure there’s a sh…a lot of other things that I’m forgetting…” There was humor in the words, in the voice, and a touch of something that suggested he wasn’t as repentant of those things as he could be.

It made the next question an easy one. “I take it you have not come to confess those?” What came after, however, was much more difficult to voice. “So what has brought you here…my…” He should have said son, but the word stuck in his throat as it warred with the word that begged to be said in its place. Lover. The realization made him choke and cough.

“Father?”

Humor still? Did he know? No…he couldn’t…could he? “Please…go on.”

There was the sound of rustling on the other side of the petition and he pictured his parishioner fidgeting on his seat, his lean legs shifting in his tight jeans to reveal the prominent visage of his masculinity confined beneath the denim. He just began to cross himself, to try to dispel the demon image in his mind, when the velvet voice so near to his ear said only, “Impure thoughts…Father…”

He blinked and nearly slid from his stool. Impure thoughts…yes…that was precisely what plagued him. They shouldn’t; he’d never been plagued by them before, not in all the years since he decided to take holy vows. So why? Why now? What sin had he committed to deserve such torments as this man was driving him to?

“Impure thoughts?” he asked quietly. That hardly seemed the worst of the listed offenses. Whether out of the need to clarify, or curiosity, or some morbid sense of self-torture, he asked, “What sort of impure thoughts?”

There was a long moment of silence in the adjoining cubicle, and for a moment he believed he was alone now. And then that voice started again in an almost rumbling purr that shot straight into places he rarely thought about having.

“You see, Father…we had this dinner party last night for me mum…it was her birthday, you understand…and there was this face there. You know, Father…one of those angels straight from heaven…big eyes…blue or green, I’m not sure which…and the most heavenly head of blonde curls a man could ever lay eyes on…”

He couldn’t breathe. Yes…he remembered a woman like that at the party. He hadn’t met her, but he remembered her. Tall…all legs it seemed…a model most likely, and just the sort of woman a wealthy bad boy would go for. “Go on…” he managed to push out in a hiss of breath. He found the idea of listening to the man’s deepest fantasies to be one of the most erotic things he had ever imagined.

“I was just laughing with me mates, lifting my beer in a toast…and he was there…God’s gift to the earth, the most beautiful vision I’d ever seen…”

Surely he’d heard that wrong, he thought, running his hand up through his unruly blonde curls. He couldn’t possibly mean…?

“Just took me breath away…seeing ‘im like that…tall, dressed in black…that down under accent…making me want to…” a long pause “do things…”

He choked, and tried to mask the sound by clearing his throat. Trying to sound detached, professional, he leaned back against the wall and asked, “What sort of things…?”

Dear Lord, did he really want to know? Especially when his heart was racing in anticipation and his unused manhood was rising to attention beneath his robes in a most painful fashion. Had she been from Down Under too? It seemed far-fetched…but not impossible. Certainly less far-fetched and more plausible then thinking that the Irish bad-boy with the long dark hair and several days’ worth of stubble could possibly have noticed HIM!

Another chuckle. “Surely God already knows…”

Almost too abruptly he rasped, “You must confess them. Expose them to the light. Purge them from your mind…”

And rescue me from the agony of imagination!

“Well…Father…not long after I laid eyes on him…he went down the hall to the loo. There’s a closet in the hall…and I almost…I wanted…”

A breathless gasp, then, “Yes…?”

“I wanted to hide in the closet…wait for him to return…grab him…pull him inside…amongst the old fur and tattered wool and the smell of mothballs. I saw myself pushing him against the wall…my hand tight over his mouth as I unzipped his trousers and freed his dick…”

A brief uncomfortable silence and he wondered if the speaker could hear the sounds emanating from the priest’s cubicle as he opened his clothing and wrapped his fist around engorged flesh. He had to make it stop…but it was good…so good…as his hand slid down the velvet skin towards his body, and then back up to milk beads of moisture from within, in time to the cadence of the spoken words.

“He’s scared…Father…terrified. I can hear it in his breathing…smell it on him…but he wants me. He’s already hard and trembling, and though he struggles at first, as I stroke him, he gives up that fight and moans into my hand…”

“Yes…” he whispered. It would have been just like that. He could smell the mothballs, he could feel the brush of old women’s coats against his skin, but most of all he could feel the hand upon him, and the hot breath upon his face as his dark haired bandit says…

“Hush…they’ll hear you. He struggle a bit more now, panicked that I’m so close, but when I give his balls a tug, he stills with a long groan. I’ve got him now. I know he wants it…that he’ll do anything for me if I just…”

“What?”

Another chuckle. “I want him to suck me, Father…but something tells me it’s too soon…that he’s not ready for that…and though I want him, Father…I know the only way to really own him…is to do it myself. I remind him to stay quiet and then slowly move my hand from his face…his mouth is frozen there in a perfect stunned O, sparks flying from his eyes that I can’t really see in the darkness. I just feel him there…you know?”

Oh yes, he knew. Frozen in place and time, in a moment of blissful terror, awaiting whatever his dark master would ask of him.

His hand upon his flesh moved a little faster, closed a little tighter, and he shivered. His other hand loosened the white collar and buttons at his throat, trying to make it a little easier to breathe.

“So to not scare him off by asking too much…I’ve got him pressed into the corner as I move the tails of his neatly tucked in shirt…and squatting amongst the boxes and rain shoes and clutter, I suck his cock down into my throat, slowly…all the way…no prelude, no warning…’cause I don’t want him to have the chance to refuse…but I know he won’t. He wants this…I can tell…”

“He does…” he whispered before his jaw fell slack again. The pre-cum had made his organ slippery now, making it that much easier to imagine the damp heat of the other man’s mouth upon him. His need was so great now that he wasn’t even thinking about where he was or that he shouldn’t be doing this. He was caught in the moment and unable to break free.

“His hands wind into my hair, gripping tight, but I don’t mind. He thinks he’s keeping me there…but I’m the one with the power. There are noises outside the closet, voices that have stopped to talk there…someone leaning on the door causing it to creak and groan. He tenses, afraid of being caught, but he wants it so much that in spite of that fear, one good, long hard suck…and he cums into my throat…with a squeal that is only cut off because he thinks to bite into the fur of the nearest coat…”

Not a coat, but the sleeve of his robe as he bit into his own arm to stifle the pants and moans as he pumped faster and harder, surrounded by imagery so real, that as the rich deep voice continued, he could smell and taste the alcohol, tobacco, and semen…though he’d never tasted two of them before and only knew the smell of two in passing.

“I look up to where his face should be in the darkness. I can’t see him…but I know the look. I lick him clean, stand up, and plunge my tongue down his throat so that he can taste himself on me…”

His shout of bliss was lost into his arm where he bit harder now, as his furiously stroking fist filled with creamy white, everything so vivid and real to his mind that he couldn’t help but respond. He sat there, panting, eyes closed, listening…waiting…but there was nothing, only a fading chuckle, a creak of hinges that sounded far, far away, and the pungent aroma of cigarette smoke wafting across his senses.

“And then?”

Silence. His eyes cracked open, half expecting to see darkness and coats. Instead there were flecks of lights coming through around the confessional door as always, and light spilling through the hatchway through which words were shared in confession. He could see that the door to the other side was open now.

He was alone.

But he didn’t need the remainder of the fantasy spelled out. He could see it already, how he was left slouched in a closet with his flaccid organ hanging wet and spent against his clothing. Left with nothing but memories and a handful of cum…and something more.

A rolled up bit of paper, shoved into the hatch…upon which were only three words. His heart almost stopped beating. He almost forgot to breathe as the slip of paper fluttered to the floor out of his shaky fingers.

“Same time tomorrow.”

Would he be there? He knew he would. God help him, he had no choice.


End file.
